


Fate of Captivity

by Good_Evening



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Bargaining, Chronology Mixup, Imprisonment, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Rape, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:36:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Good_Evening/pseuds/Good_Evening
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Guardians and Jack are captured while Tsar Lunanoff goes on the run. Having no control over his life, Jack is thrust into Pitch's service and fears his secret will be uncovered. Pitch fears much the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fate of Captivity

**Author's Note:**

> This is still in the works! I try to make chapters vaguely sustainable as their own stories, and long enough so the reader doesn't feel cheated. However, my update history is horrible and I... I am not a good person.
> 
> Please enjoy, regardless.

Pitch is not sure if he’s captured a small army or a few refugees. The men and women are decorated with weapons and armor, but trembling children stand chained among them. Small as it is, the ship did not take long to capture. It’s old, too; he wonders how the scantling hasn’t given out under the Cossack’s feet. He walks in front of the ragtag crew, towering over most of them in full regalia, but not a single one quails. He’s never encountered such courage. Perhaps they’ve not heard of him.

 

One child in particular has almost no expression, neither glaring nor cowing. He lingers for a second, steps slowed as he hikes a brow. Most of the prisoners have some fear of where they’ll end up, what he’ll do to the children, but this boy stares at him transfixed. He can’t sense any fear, but then, a growing string of dread. He stops fully, staring down. The boy’s chest moves faster and stills. Within a moment, he seems to reel back, fear building. Ah. Someone has recognized him, then.

 

He waves to the lieutenant to remove the boy. There’s a bit of a fight, and he’s pinned to the floor. A woman in colorful finery tries to kneel to help him, but the chains hold her back. Her glare is the strongest Pitch has seen in months. If he were younger, he might have given her a chance. Perhaps she’d even get a punch in.

 

The Cossack pulls her back and stares mournfully down at the boy. Pitch spies a child hiding behind and flicks to him. The lieutenant grabs him, too, although this time, there’s actual protest.

 

“Right,” Pitch hums. He turns to the older boy being held to the planks and crouches, taking his chin in hand. Rage flows into him, but that’s not the quiver in his back.

 

“All of them will get hard labor. There is a mine on a planet near here. But I will give you a choice.” He turns the boy’s head to that of the younger one, shivering in thin clothes between two soldiers.

“He’s too young. He’ll die within a few months, at most. I will let him stay on my ship, and he will receive proper rations.”

 

The boy’s eyes light up and quickly narrow. His shoulders tense, readying for the catch. Pitch gives himself a moment to think it over. He knows the boy will take the deal, but also that he won’t surrender easily.

 

“You will be my attendant. Is that clear?”

 

The boy doesn’t speak, but doesn’t raise objection, either. Pitch would have liked at least some affirmation, though he’s sure the stubbornness will wear off. He rises back to full height and has the soldiers take the children away. When they’re out of earshot, he turns to the Cossack, who seems to be the ringleader.

 

“Now,” he spies the amulet and yanks it off the man’s neck, letting it drop to the floor as if it burns.  

 

“Tell me. How is the Tsar?”

 

* * *

 

 

Jack has never left Earth. They hadn’t even made it out of the solar system before the Nightmare King’s own ship had picked them up. He’s not sure why they’d left in the first place; the whole of humanity is likely doomed, now. Except for Jamie, and even so, he’ll likely be a slave for the rest of his life. Jack wants to cry, but he doesn’t know when someone might walk in. The quarters they’d dumped him into are too luxurious to be his own. The bed is massive and draped with black fabric softer than velvet. Avoiding it is necessary to retain what little of his cool remains. He can only hope that Pitch hasn’t figured out too much about him, yet.

 

Aster will probably try to kill them both, if he does.

 

The door clicks and Jack flinches, covering his knees with a blanket he’d stripped from the dais. Pitch Black enters and ghosts right by him toward a hulking stone armoire. He removes his cloak and gauntlets, but leaves the strange, thin armor coating his body. Jack has watched movies about aliens with thick, black shells. Maybe it connects to Pitch’s skin.

 

His curiosity allays the fear for a moment, and it’s then that Pitch looks at him. He walks forward and eyes the blanket, leaning over to strip it away. Jack tenses and can’t help the defiant glare. His hatred bubbles up before he can stop it.

 

“That won’t do you any good, here.” Pitch’s voice is softer than it was on the ship. He turns the key to the overhead with a grimace, plunging the room into a comforting gloom. Jack watches shadows creep up the walls from Pitch’s feet, the black armour dissolving into fear. Living metal. His sanity locks up as it sputters over the sight, and he tries to ignore the fear pulsing steadily into him. But of course Pitch can tell.

 

“Your planet has yet to be destroyed. I prefer to occupy myself with greater creatures. But I will be rounding up immortals like yourself.”

 

Jack thinks of Baby Tooth, of Sandy and Bunny who had stayed to watch over the children. The Moon had never told him of his plans, having conferred only with the Guardians. Jack has never been important enough to speak to directly.

 

Pitch, now clad in a thin black robe, walks toward him. The boredom in his eyes flashes for a moment, and he reaches out his hand. Jack curls against the wall, mesmerized by the bare skin of the man’s chest before turning his head to his knees. Pitch has no patience for his reservations. Without a word, he hauls Jack off the floor, the boy scrambling and yelping as he’s tossed to the bed. He clenches the dark fabric and tries to burrow into it, but his ankle is tugged down and his arm pinned.

 

“ _Don’t-!_ ”

 

“ _Don’t_ what? I own you.” Pitch watches him from above, perfectly composed but hungry. Jack reminds himself he’s not a piece of meat. “You will sleep with me.”

 

The boy blanches, struggling renewed. The hand on his arm holds fast, tightening until he winces. Another hand draws up to his chin and forces him to look Pitch in the eye.

 

“This ship is full of soldiers and fearlings. If you don’t want to be raped in the barracks, you will follow my orders.”

 

The prospect of rape has undoubtedly been haunting him. A wince escapes as one long grey finger casually traces his jaw. Pitch stares idly at his features before murmuring,

 

“You’re quite beautiful. I wonder how you’d look after a hundred men have had their way with you?”

 

Jack stills and closes his eyes as Pitch explores. His clothes are torn and he hadn’t been offered new ones. He chews his cheek almost bloody to suppress the bile in his throat as hands trace down his sides. If he fights back, will Jamie die? What counts as disobedience? Fear pours out of him, the longer they touch. Pitch hesitates when Jack groans, unable to place it with fear or pleasure.

 

“My, my. You are a treat.”

 

The hands recede and Jack quickly folds in on himself. A brief yank at his trousers and they nearly unravel.

 

“ _No!_ ”

 

His arms fly to cover himself, but the moment he leaves himself open, his shirt is ripped off as well. Pitch admires his nudity from the edge of the bed. Jack eventually relaxes enough to glower from the sheets, anger seeping in where fear had ruled. Pitch smiles and stands fully, undoing the clasp on his robe. Jack’s eyes fly to the revealed skin, widened as they linger. He smirks and removes his trousers, as well, leaning down to crawl over the bed.

 

Something in Jack flickers upon seeing him unclothed. The boy scrambles back, but his arms swoon and he collapses against the pillows. Pitch feels rather like a predator coming upon a rabbit. But his plans for devouring the boy are more intricate. He will not force what could come easily. He doesn’t tell Jack this, and the boy looks fit to scream as a hand covers his mouth and another turns him on his side. Pitch sidles up behind him and luxuriates in the cold sweat pouring off the child’s back. He presses warningly against a slender backside, half-hard from the intoxicating fear and shame. Jack freezes and he presses again; harder. Toes twitch and that soft mouth opens just the slightest degree before a pale neck relaxes into the pillow. Perhaps he should bite to claim his territory.

 

“You will sleep with me,” he reiterates, “I will not force you, but you will concede if you want the boy to live.”

 

He releases his hand from Jack’s mouth, retreating from pressing against him so aggressively. The boy catches his breath and comes to clutch the pillow, legs cuddling up to his chest. The fetal position. Pitch thinks he smells tears.

 

“ _... where is he?_ ”

 

The voice is light but strong. It makes Pitch shudder to think what he could do to it. He props himself up on one of the pillows, tracing a white spine with a long fingernail.

 

“Currently, he’s in the barracks.”

 

Jack flips over to him and those blue eyes hold fire. Pitch wants to steal it.

 

“If they hurt him--”

 

“You’ll what?” Pitch raises an eyebrow, “Hiss at me? Kill yourself? Your body is all the collateral you have. Use it wisely.”

 

Jack forgets himself and strikes out. Pitch allows him to roll before lunging up, forcing Jack on his back so that his head teeters off the mattress. His young chest heaves and thin hands scrabble for a hold, but Pitch pins him with ease. The boy’s legs thrash over his lap and he grinds down to make a point. They still, Jack’s head cocked, eyes half-lidded with a poisonous glare. His cheeks and lips are flushed, his panting the only sound in the room. Pitch continues his previous exploration, damning earlier plans.

 

Jack thrashes again, but each time, Pitch thrusts and he’s silenced. He aims his talons toward the boy’s genitals, thinking perhaps a threat against his manhood might better subdue him. But when he reaches his prize, he’s shocked to find someone has beaten him to it.

 

He can’t help the surprise in his voice,

 

“You’re a eunuch,” Jack’s teeth are bared and he snarls as Pitch grasps his phallus, fingering the place where his testicles should be. He smiles and grips harder, delighted by the squeal he receives. He marvels at the slender frame, the bony hips,

 

“Normally, eunuchs gain weight.”

 

Jack doesn’t look at him, face red as he bites at his lip and tries to keep his jerking minimal. Pitch’s caresses are extremely bold, but when they creep down between his thighs, his thrashing renews and he manages to shut his legs.

 

He’s flipped so his back is against Pitch’s chest and the realization hits how much larger the other man is. Pitch nearly curls over his shoulder, hand prying his knees apart as long legs inch forward to keep his thighs spread. Jack whimpers and jumps when the wandering fingers search his little hole, bucking and clenching as they massage it.

 

“You’re not a hermaphrodite, it seems,” the hand leisurely strokes back to his penis, fondling the vacant space beneath. “Yet, no scar. How curious,” He keeps Jack pressed to his chest, but allows him to close his legs. The boy huddles as tightly as he can, unmoving even as Pitch lays them down, arms threading over his tensed body.

 

“I’ll wait, but I am not a patient man.” Pitch whispers in his ear. Jack’s eyes fly open. “You would do well to grant consent quickly. I’d hate to have to use that human as a replacement.”

 

While Pitch fell asleep quite easily afterward, limbs immovable as they tightened in his slumber, Jack was prodded with shadows emboldened by the blackness. They crawled under his eyes when he closed them and blinded him with fear. Having nothing else to comfort him, he recoiled into Pitch’s grasp, urging himself to keep control for Jamie’s sake.

 

* * *

 

Pitch had promised him Jamie’s life would be safe. The details of the payment, Jack should have assumed, were more or less implied by his title of “attendant.” He stays in Pitch’s apartments, wandering from room to room and busying himself with hiding anything that looks important, the last outlet for his mischief. He comes to realize that the Nightmare King rarely sleeps. In fact, he only comes back to his room to change, and when he does, Jack typically hides in the bathroom. He keeps the water running while he sits naked on the steps. He has not been given new clothing.

 

One morning, during a nap with the lights blaring, (the shadows crept in, otherwise) he awoke to Pitch staring down at him. His arms were already pinned and one armored knee rested between his thighs. The dark material seemed to cling to him as it moved closer, trying to cover him, as well. Through wide blue eyes, he watched Pitch’s expression shift with a thousand subtleties. It had been nearly a week since his capture and he was frightened to see an overwhelming theme of _hunger_ plague the man’s actions. Almost resigned to his fate, Jack closed his eyes and let be what would be.

 

To his shock, Pitch disappeared. He didn’t come back, that night. Perhaps it had only been a nightmare.

 

Jack is nearly convinced he’s been abandoned when, two days later, Pitch finally enters the room with a parcel in hand. He silently tosses it on the bed where Jack lies, blanket drawn over his chest, and walks into the bathroom. The door closes and the sound of water emanates from within.

 

He approaches the package hesitantly. It must have been intended for him. Pitch has never brought anything else back to this room. He opens it, half-expecting a bloodied head, when he discovers fine, cool fabric. He runs his hands over it and slowly pulls it out, questioning its make. Everything on the ship is constructed of strange materials, the fabrics most of all. Unlike Pitch’s shadows, this carries a delicate shimmer. The light blue reminds him of robins’ eggs. Jack draws it out of the box and holds it to his chest.

 

It’s a robe. Or a tunic. It’s short, but it opens. He fumbles with the sleeves and looks for a rope to tie it with. Something shines from the bottom of the box.

 

A dark blue sash, so soft it runs through his fingers, is folded neatly over a golden pin. Jack wraps it as best he can around the robe and gapes at the jewelry. Sandy had worn something like this.

 

“Stardust. I pried that off after sending one into a supernova. It’s nearly impossible to get without a fight.”

 

Pitch stands in the doorway to the bathroom, entirely naked. Jack pulls the fabric as low as he can over his knees, searching desperately for trousers or leggings. A grey hand shoves the empty box off the bed, hips close to Jack’s face. The boy keeps his eyes closed and tries to calm his heart.

 

_He can’t do it by force, he can’t do it by force,_

__  
  


“I learned something about the wisps on your planet,”

 

Jack jolts, finally looking up. He glares halfheartedly at the man in front him, hands twitching in instinctive search for a weapon. Pitch only advances, until Jack is on his elbows and wishes he were dead.

 

“It’s said that they can reproduce but, it’s odd,” his smile quirks and Jack’s face whitens in fear. “There was no mention of gender.” He clutches the robe but Pitch pushes it up anyway, tugging his hands away and grinding against a reddened rump. Jack moans and turns his head into his arm, trying to keep himself quiet.

 

He’s never had to censor himself so thoroughly. He’d never lived such a lie. Pitch has already figured out too much. If he could just keep control for long enough, there might still be a chance.

 

“That’s it, good boy,”

 

Jack is softer than he appears, and as fingers make to slowly prepare him, they slip in without trouble. The General has to catch his breath at their smooth entrance, the velvet of Jack’s passage. Losing control, he pushes the boy’s head to the sheets and eases himself in, draping over Jack’s taut frame as he shivers in ecstasy. Contrary to his weak protests, before, Jack is trembling and somehow wet. Perhaps even pushing back. It’s been years since Pitch last had a partner, and Jack seems all too willing. He still bites at his lip and Pitch strokes his cheek, rocking in until the muscles tighten too much. Breathless from the heat, he wonders how he’d not found Earth until now; how its beings could have escaped his clutches for millenia.

 

Jack begins panting, blue eyes groggy and searching behind him. His breaths turn to moans and he can’t be aware of himself. Pitch sinks in deeper but hits a wall of muscle. He shudders as he pushes against it, dimly aware of Jack’s fingers clenching and relaxing in the blankets below. His thighs tense as he tries to penetrate further, rubbing insistently against the wall. Jack cries out, staring back at Pitch with pure want and only a little loathing. Pitch smiles and his eyes flutter, arm steadying him at the headboard. He leans into his elbow and fucks Jack lazily, probing as deeply as he can yet always running into that muscle.

 

It’s not just tightness. Jack’s passage seems to end abruptly, soon enough that Pitch cannot fit all the way inside. Part of him whines at the loss of heat on his shaft, at his inability to reach Jack’s core. Perhaps wisps are entirely self-sustaining, with no need for food or excretion. The boy certainly hasn’t fed normally from anything he’s received. From Jack’s reactions, this appears to be entirely a sexual organ, the likes of which Pitch has never encountered. A particularly amusing squeak catches him off-guard as he strokes slender white hips.

 

“Ahh, you’re young. Have you never had a mate?”

 

His thrusts are heavy and deliberate, Jack’s silence taxing his resolve to remain gentle. He slaps lightly at the boy’s thigh, shuddering at the sigh that tumbles out.

 

“Speak,” he commands. Jack’s voice might send him over the edge, but he has all eternity to go again.

 

“ _No,_ ”

 

“ _No_ what?

 

Jack grimaces and grunts, likely holding in a moan. His voice cracks and words slur,

 

“ _Al...one_.”

 

“Alone?”

 

Pitch tweaks his nipple and makes to turn him over. Jack scrambles for a hold on the headboard, keeping his face buried, and Pitch relents on the condition that he answer.

 

“No one else… _Mh_ …”

 

Whether or not the boy had been isolated was not Pitch’s interest. Satisfied enough with the response, he ups the tempo, smirking as pale limbs shrink against the boy’s body, tugging the blankets into a ball to muffle his voice. He wonders if he can still get hard. His hands gain an objective amid their wandering, gliding down over the boy’s stomach and thighs to tease him. Jack spits out a mouthful of blanket to gasp. Pitch thinks he hears a stuttered _please._ He acquiesces.

 

A beautifully choked moan is muffled in the fabric. What greets him is a reddened, swollen little cock, though not entirely hard. It appears to be extremely sensitive, maintaining the basic form of a phallus at half-mast. No amount of thrusting or stroking makes it grow any more, and from Jack’s groans and sighs, Pitch can guess that his anatomy is not suited to his own sexual arousal. The differences between them stacking higher with each new discovery, Pitch revels in how the boy’s back arches and sinks, either entirely defeated or pleasured out of his mind. His thrusts become sharper, jolting against the impassable wall of flesh. The cries surrounding him grow louder, Jack surrendering his hold on the blanket and unconscious of Pitch turning him. He flops mindlessly to his back, legs splayed wide. The tiniest hint of alarm widens his eyes, but Pitch tries new angles at a punishing pace, striking against small hips so hard it hurts.

 

He resumes his work on the boy’s cock, building to climax with another chorus of gasps. Jack’s entrance loosens as his volume increases and Pitch drives madly onward, sighing into his collarbone when he smells blood. The entrance tightens again and Jack’s lip is bloody from biting, a dangerous glare drifting just under his lust.

 

Pitch pays him no heed, lapping up the blood hungrily and sucking on the pink lip. He holds the squirming body tight to the bed, thrusts losing time as he approaches the edge. The wall begins to loosen again and he embraces Jack to get a better hold, to drive harder and deeper and hold him still. The boy cries out as his neck is attacked, energy seeping out of his struggle as that wall breaks at last and Pitch nearly shouts from the pleasure. The body in his grasp is limp and malleable as he pulls it down further onto his cock, chest heaving with each new inch claimed. The heat is higher and the passage wetter, engulfing him until his orgasm slams into him, one last thrust as far as he can go. He keeps Jack pressed inescapably in his lap, shivering as he pumps into the shivering body. Nothing is more important than having him swallow every last drop.

 

When the last of his lust fades, he sinks down onto the little body beneath him, still embedded in that glorious heat. When the strength returns to look down at what he’s done, he sees Jack with wide eyes and powerless limbs, mouth open and chest trembling. He thinks that the boy must be having his own orgasm, and with a smirk gives a playful push forward. Eyelashes flutter in shock, a silent gasp caught in a white throat. His pupils are completely blown with pleasure, moving slightly and quickly.

 

Worried that something might be wrong, Pitch pulls out and makes to speak, but the moment he does, Jack gasps back to life, chest curling as his head arches back and eyes close. He loses the last of his effort and collapses, spent. Pitch examines his softening cock, his reddened cheeks. Thoughtful of the mess to come, he yanks a washcloth from the nightstand and prepares to wipe down his hapless bedmate, but nothing drips out. It’s as if the boy had stored it somewhere. Curiousity peaked, Pitch wants to question him, tease him, maybe spend some post-coital bliss locked in half-forced cuddling.

 

But the second he meets Jack’s eyes he finds an unnerving hatred. It’s not directed at him. There’s a warmth to his gaze which is all too inviting, if without hope.  Rather, it seems all Jack wants is to disappear. As if he has suffered existence long enough already.

 

Something springs in Pitch that he’s never felt toward a partner. Something dark and consuming. The thought of Jack escaping makes him growl, so that a lazy blue gaze flicks toward him. He envelopes the boy in the blankets and keeps him near, petting absentmindedly or keeping a possessive arm draped over his side. Jack remains lifeless, only flinching when fingers slip across his cheek.

 

* * *

 

Pitch has few illusions that that night wasn’t rape. His captivity of the human boy is enough of a playing card to lure any unwilling body to his bed. The act lingers in his mind and rots inside of him. He finds voices he’s never listened to scolding him more loudly than ever, and others he’s not heard directing his thoughts. Keeping Jack locked up in his room for the duration of the voyage should be boring; at some point, he usually forces his conquests into the barracks to have his room to himself, damn their fate. But the idea of Jack being fucked by anyone else infuriates him. Irrationality springs in his interactions with the crew and his soldiers. He doesn’t even trust the slaves who do the cooking and laundry. He finally realizes the full threat of what’s happening when he nearly forbids them from entering the wing just _containing_ his apartments.

 

Spells are not unheard of among spirits, although Pitch has never encountered one of utter captivation. Throughout the day, his thoughts are plagued with images of Jack on his knees, Jack being forced to suck off the soldier he’s addressing, Jack begging for his come and offering heat and that tightness, that velvet--

 

The shadows react to his lusts and skitter anxiously about the ship, snapping at the crew and darting angrily over the windows, trying to escape. As much as Pitch wants Jack, he comes to hate him for his disruption. The boy must have planned it all from the moment of his capture: enticing the Nightmare King, himself, with such fear and that body; that beautiful dread that permeates the air whenever he’s near. Soldiers avoid his presence and he stalks the halls of the massive ship, distantly resentful of the tsar and his tricks, yet somehow too focused on Jack to care. Surely, it’s all Jack’s fault.

 

He’ll punish him tonight. Jack will regret living more than ever.

 

Planning the torture consumes most of his day. He vaguely directs his underlings to keep course toward the center of the galaxy. The tsar had escaped with some refugees from the planet’s surface. Normally, the hunt would preoccupy his every second. He wouldn’t dare think of entertaining himself with a victim. Jack is then not only an enigma, but a powerful one. Pitch thinks himself a slave and does not appreciate it. He’s sure Jack laughs at him in secret.

 

So when he approaches the door to his suite, he’s more than prepared with years of torture under his

belt, with a potion that will have his captive stumbling the border between pleasure and torment, when the door opens and he drops everything.

 

The whip, the papers for the day, even the delicate phial holding the mixture. He can’t be bothered with the glass shards. His whole existence is reduced to breathing.

 

Something. Some scent.

 

All anger dissipates and he can only think of this scent.

 

It warms him instantly. The armor drops with hardly a thought. The door closes and the darkness is palpable; shadows gorged on the tension. His feet move without direction, nearing the bedroom. A chair is knocked over, the bathroom door open. The carpet is wet with footprints.

 

All existence zeroes in on a tiny sound; a groan, the shifting of blankets. He can hear breathing that’s too heavy to be normal, smell sweat and lust and Jack.

 

Jack is completely bare, skin slick and eyes shining. Glare heated and wanting, he rests tensed in a pile of blankets and pillows. Pitch comes to the side of the bed, mind still blank, the will to absorb the scene broken as Jack simply _moves._

 

He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, grinding down as Jack gasps and grabs at his robes, tugging through the shadows and ripping them into the void. Pitch presses down, Jack’s back arching and fragrant with bathwater. The boy pushes into his thrusts, hands fumbling at his trousers but too shaky to do anything. His struggles, himself, but they melt away as soon as he gains the mind to command them. It’s an unpleasant awakening. It takes power he’s only willing to use on Jack, to mate, and he needs that more than anything.

 

“ _Please,_ ” Jack begs him, licking his lips as he hurriedly lines up and presses forth.

 

He gasps while the boy moans long and strained. It’s that same tightness he’d only achieved near orgasm, all-consuming  and too intense to last long. Jack is dripping for him and clawing at his hips to get him to thrust deeper, faster. The bed quivers under their assault and he doesn’t bother pinning Jack or ridiculing him, tormenting him. His being is nothing but lust. Jack begs him, never quiet for more than a few seconds.

 

“... _Come… inside… need it_ …”

 

He babbles and clenches that impossibly hot passage, pleading for his come. Pitch holds out for a few minutes before he shouts and gouges tender skin yanking Jack as far down onto his cock as he can manage, shivering at the whine and chorus of yes, yes, yes that proceeds. Just when he’d like to collapse, he’s thrown to his back, too tired to fend off the body climbing atop. Jack grinds down and devours him again. Pitch is oversensitive and grimaces at the pain, but he hardens again so fast his head spins violently, Jack abusing his weakness as he takes the lead.

 

And Pitch had been led to believe he was a virgin. Jack is merciless.

 

His assault is calculated, with grinding, bobbing, slamming his hips down. His fingers inch toward the opening, legs spreading to gaze in wonder at the pink flesh sucking Pitch in, the tender skin flushed and wet as he fumbles with his little cock and his head falls to the side. After a few moments, Pitch manages enough energy to rise to his elbows, quickly abandoning it as Jack clenches down and grinds, fingers teasing the base of his shaft as his opening tightens and reddens.

 

Pitch holds his hips and begins thrusting, more powerful than Jack’s, almost deaf to the shocked squeals with the blood pounding in his ears. Jack sways dangerously until Pitch sits up. He falls back a little, knees balanced carefully over grey thighs as his own open and Pitch marvels at their connection. His lust returns full-force and Jack keens, throwing his head back and begging again, foretelling the future as it comes and Pitch simply surrenders. He pounds as hard as he can, enough to break a mortal’s bones as Jack’s walls swallow him up and suck greedily on his cock. It’s his whole world. He comes with a desperate whine, blindsided and unsure why there’s any left.

 

Jack gives a shaky little yell and pants hot breaths onto the heaving chest covering him. His slender hips give a few futile thrusts, urging Pitch to continue with a wheedling moan. Pouting eyes command him to thrust, though softening, and Jack’s moans increase in desperation until he seems ready to fight. Pitch could care less.

 

Though his cock begs to differ, he’s done. The second orgasm was sudden and almost painful. Jack nudges him and tries to turn him on his back again, but he only forces the boy to his side, stretching tiredly beside him. Within seconds, delicate hands are goading him on, stroking his chest as Jack humps back against his cock and he feels it rise.

 

Had he been capable of speech, he might have sworn, but Jack was already guiding him inside that heat, inviting him and before he can stop himself, he’s fucking that little hole in slow, lazy circles. But it’s never enough. Jack humps him more insistently and they turn over so the boy is back on his knees, laving at Pitch’s hand as it clenches the fabric by his head.

 

If this goes on, he might just faint.

 

* * *

 

Spirits don’t require sleep. Jack’s vision is foggy as breath ghosts over his neck. The shadows are strangely quiet, usually humming or twisting, but now they only slink lethargically across the floor, too exhausted to reach the bed and torment him as usual.

 

He wants to sit up, but an alarming pain overtakes him. His eyes widen a little, breaths increasing as Pitch’s hold on him tightens. A gentle murmur slows his rapid heart and he relaxes. The legs intertwined with his own are long and too hot. Everything is too hot. Yet each time he tries to sidle out of bed, the arms around him only curl covetously. A few times, he hears a low, warning growl. Surrender seems the only option.

 

He’s disgusted with himself.

 

He knows if Tooth and North were here, his self-loathing would only meet a chorus of _It’s not your fault_ and _We should have protected you_. He’d managed himself perfectly well until the Guardians had interfered; offering him light and happiness and the family he’d always wanted. Perhaps it was weak-minded of him to accept. There of thousands of ifs to be pursued, all leading him straight to the Nightmare Galleon; to certain doom. He’s not sure what their plan was. He’s not sure of any of this space stuff. He just wants to go home, to see Jamie safe and not have to worry about tsars or pirates or whatever “The Void” is.

 

Any attempt to move is stifled, his prison coiling tighter about his ribcage.

 

Bunny had warned him to be careful. Had despaired at their separation. Jack could hardly care either way; he didn’t feel anything for the Pooka or the tsar’s fight. He only wants freedom. And… the things he’s done. Whatever was supposed to happen…

 

It wasn’t like he’d promised himself. It wasn’t like Manny had ever once asked his permission, whether in his resurrection or his… surrogacy.

 

The bile rises before he can help it, and that little bit of fear, that Pitch might wake and hurt him again, stimulates the shadows, and they welcome his release. The arms fall from around him and he nearly falls out of bed, body filthy and sore as he hobbles to the bathroom.

 

Used. Violated.

 

_You enjoy it._

 

The washbasin is is full and he avoids the mirror; too often, shadows creep over and warp his reflection. The water isn’t cool enough. Wet hands run shakily over his bruised neck, washing off saliva and blood.

 

_Even begged for it._

 

His hips ache from the constant pounding. His back is tweaked from strange positions. The bathwater is still and cool from when he’d used it, the day before. There was nothing else to alleviate the heat. Holding his head under the water, he’d tried to see if the shock of his death could knock any sense back into him. Breathlessness only made the want sharper.

 

_You don’t even care who does it. The rabbit would have been just as good._

 

Ignoring the voice, whether it’s his conscience or mere self-deprecation, takes more energy than he has left. The bathroom has soft, hidden lights, bright enough to reveal every hickey, bite mark, scrape, and strip of white. Not enough to keep the shadows away.

 

They swirl around his feet as he approaches the bath, flowing through the water like oil to reveal a carved seat. He sat there, yesterday, rocking and scrubbing and panting as the heat assaulted him. There was nothing he could do. There is nothing he can do.

 

_A victim doesn’t ask for it._

 

“Shut up,” he grits his teeth and massages his aching head. It must have struck the headboard. Memories are too fuzzy, dark around the edges. It could have been yesterday or a week ago. He’s not sure how long they’d… since he’d been raped.

 

He’d been raped

 

_Would it have been better if it was rape? Are you that much of a masochist?_

 

Heat.

 

Bunny had warned him about the Heat. Had instructed him as best he could, cultivated him.

 

Wanted him.

 

Jack wanted nothing to do with any of this. He’s not even sure where he is anymore; what he is. The changes to his anatomy he’d never questioned, how Manny had given him freely as if he were some toy, some hole to be filled. He has every reason to hate his home and everyone in it, but he would give anything to return to it. Before the Guardians, their awkward and forcible courting, he’d hardly been aware of sex. His whole life had been loneliness, the desperation for any company, any love.

 

_You certainly got what you wanted._

 

If he lives through this, can manage to free Jamie and somehow return, he’ll probably never speak to the Guardians again, if anyone. He can’t even touch Jamie. He hates himself.

 

Dim thoughts arise and vanish that his scrubbing is futile; it hadn’t washed away the Heat, the scent; it can’t cleanse what’s been done. The scars are deep and barely scabbed over. Catching the edge of one rips the flesh back open and he hisses, hands reverent of the wound Pitch wrought on his hip. There are too many scratches to count, and he can’t think of the abuse down there without panic throttling all movement.

 

What if it happens again? Will he lose control just like before? Will no memories serve him?

  
  


_You_

_Want_

_It_

 

No amount of denial can silence it. There’s no darkness inside of him, hissing answers to questions he hasn’t asked. There’s no doppelganger lurking behind the mirror, in his head, waiting to strike and take control and give something he’s not prepared to give.

 

No.

 

It’s just him. All him.

 

The Heat will come back. It will conquer him again. Bunny had told him as much, had described his gruesome fate with excitement he couldn’t translate because really, Jack is still just a child.

 

Was a child.

 

It’s something stolen. Something he can’t replace. Reminding him that he was destined for this pain but intended for Bunny. Someone he’d only fought with and joyed fighting with. Remembering it, he can pick out all the instances where he acted like Pitch. Carried that same hunger. Viewed a child with carnal intent. How could Manny have condoned it? Jack doesn’t care that he was meant to restart a race. No one had asked him. No one had told him he was missing things he shouldn’t be missing. That part of him was changed to accommodate another’s pleasure in him.

 

Bile rises and is swiftly subdued.

 

If the Heat doesn’t return, then his transformation will have fulfilled its purpose. He doesn’t want to think about it. About what he will inevitably bring into this universe. Before that happens, he will kill himself.

 

It’ll be the first time he’s had control of his life

 

* * *

 

Pitch is neither spirit nor human. Sleep is more meditation, where voices are calmed and reconciled and he remembers what he is. These past few days have vanished in a blur. His hips and back are sore, shoulders dead from supporting his weight, supporting Jack’s weight. He’d allowed the boy out of his arms, tasting the fears of embarrassment and shame. The bathroom door closed and he opened his eyes, awaiting his partner’s return.

 

Smelling himself on another being is stimulating. Basking in Jack’s scent, he could lose an afternoon. He only feels this right when he’s devouring a galaxy, and that takes years. The pleasure of the last couple of days could make a lesser man rethink his life. Jack is, after all, capable of carrying his heir. Once he’s killed the final Lunanoff and assumed control, perhaps he’ll inhabit the corpse of the Golden Palace; gut and refit it to suit his tortures and darkness. Jack’s endless captivity. From the way the boy tried to run to bathroom to escape, even locking the door, he received an awful premonition. Keeping him under tabs might be an issue. But Jack’s companionship is non-negotiable. Pitch has no qualms with locking him up for the rest of his immortal life if it means just a few days a year of this pleasure.

 

And to think a Pooka almost got its grubby paws on him. The thought makes Pitch sick to his stomach.

 

Speaking of, Jack should not be allowed this long away from him. Something stirs within when their skin parts, itches until they reconnect. He wagers it’s been about a week since he’d first entered the apartment, seen Jack and abruptly surrendered. Stars, he’s never been this enamored of another being. Maybe that’s why half of him truly just wants to destroy Jack. Jack is distraction. A wonderful, damning distraction.

 

The itch wins out and he jumps to the floor, nearing the bathroom when he hears a sniffle from under the door.

 

A muffled sob, the echo of splashing water as hands wipe furiously at red cheeks.

 

Pitch does not know why he stalls, why his eyelids lower and his frown deepens. That same part of him that wants to kill Jack rejoices at first, then hisses at his reaction, at the obvious irritation he feels with whatever’s made Jack weep. He knows it’s himself. He should just kill him now, kill the human, and get on with his mission. The Lunanoffs are wiley. This is probably some part of their scheme to overthrow him just as he’s about to claim his victory. Jack is only spoils of war. Casting him off should be no more complex than retiring a war horse. Pitch has had his fun. It’s time to move on.

 

He thinks to open the door but resists. His footsteps are loud, for once, weighted with dread as the shadows recoil and snub him. He should know what he’s doing. No plans can be sacrificed for some weeping wisp. He must control his… baser instincts.

 

As soon as the tsar is dead and gone, he will keep Jack locked up. Perhaps in preparation, he should keep him in a cell far down in the hull. Growing dependent on their liaisons will damn him in the end. Jack was supposed to be fun; uncomplicated and free. Maybe he never has been. Maybe Pitch has without knowing resigned himself to some miserable path. Jack will never be happy with him, never _willingly_ give himself based on pleasure, like Pitch has always anticipated of his partners. Jack is different. Jack detests the life that’s been given him; he can taste it.

 

And because he doesn’t want to make it worse, he has to.


End file.
